


but all was false and hollow

by rottencloset



Series: paradise lost [2]
Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types, Batman and Robin (Comics), Deathstroke the Terminator (Comics), Robin: Son of Batman (Comics), Teen Titans - All Media Types
Genre: Abandonment, Bruce Wayne is a Bad Parent, Damian Wayne Needs a Hug, Damian Wayne is Renegade, Explicit Language, Gen, Good Slade Wilson, Heavy Angst, Hurt Damian Wayne, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, No Bashing, Non-Traditional Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Omega Damian Wayne, Other, Parent Slade Wilson, Past Rape/Non-con, Protective Slade Wilson, Rape Aftermath, Slade Wilson is a Good Dad, a/b/o dynamics, canon-compliant in plot, doesn’t mean to be but he is
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-11
Updated: 2020-01-11
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:40:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,042
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22195669
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rottencloset/pseuds/rottencloset
Summary: There are always repercussions to trauma....sometimes they take a little bit to start, though.(The aftermath of Morgan Ducard’s assault on Damian Wayne.)-A fairer person lost not Heaven; he seemedFor dignity composed, and high exploit.--John Milton.
Relationships: Bruce Wayne & Damian Wayne, Damian Wayne & Everyone, Damian Wayne & Slade Wilson
Series: paradise lost [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1598545
Comments: 9
Kudos: 183





	but all was false and hollow

**Author's Note:**

> There’s no explicit porn in this. 
> 
> ...I dunno how this happened lol

When he comes back to himself, Ducard is dead. His hands are slick with blood and sweat (and ~~cum~~ ), his ass burns, and his pulse is so loud it’s all he can hear. Liquid drips from his knuckles and his hole and his head, and even though he’s aware of what’s going on he moves on autopilot.    
  
Damian burns the body. There is no satisfaction in that fact. He feels nothing as he watched the flesh melt and bubble like thick wax, and only turns away to search for an exit when the smell and the blaze gets close enough to be uncomfortable. Somehow the exit is found, and he stumbles out onto the deck of a boat and finds himself docked into a port. It was mildly ironic that everything happened here, he thinks, as their last (and what he thought had been final) confrontation had been on a luxurious yacht as well. Now it really would be.    
  
What Robin really wants to do right now is clamber over the side and leave as fast as possible. But he can’t. He’s very obviously very fucked up, and he needs fresh clothing, ideally a communicator and maybe some hard cash if he’s lucky.    
  
Surprisingly, it’s easy to find what he needs. Nobody had obviously been a cocky bastard and hadn’t bothered to hide anything more carefully than if he had been expecting civilians, making it easy to find what he needs. After changing, Damian works quickly, scrubs the feed of the dock cameras despite the floor becoming unpleasantly hot beneath his boots, and hightails out of there.    
  
(Everything hurts.    
  
Damian ignores it all.)    
  
-   
  
He’d been in Jump City the entire time, and no one had noticed he was missing. Roundhouse grunts when he walks into their base, but doesn’t look up from his video game- he’s too busy stuffing Cheetos into his mouth to pay any attention.    
  
The rest of the Teen Titans? Presumably out and about because he runs into a grand total of none of them.    
  
Damian doesn’t know if he’s disappointed or pleased. He hadn’t bothered patching up his wounds or hiding his limp, but there wasn’t anyone around to even notice. (And that was assuming they would care.)    
  
Bleeding and hurting and broken, the littlest Wayne curls up on his bed and stares up at his ceiling before he passes out. He doesn’t want to be here. He wants to be in the Fortress of Attitude, safe within its steel gray walls deep below within ocean, and most of all wants to have Jon hug him and smile at him. Wants to be in the Batcave, listening to Grayson cackle manically while guiding the others to a gymnastics routine with the drip drip drip of water in the background while curled up in a blanket. Allah, even on Infinity Island, toes curled up in the warmth of the sand while his clones babble to each other and him quietly, Maya and Suren strong presences on either side of him- anywhere but here.    
  
(Anywhere where he’s loved.)    
  
The next day he wakes up, takes a shower, cleans his wounds, and staunchly refuses to think about what happened. When he makes himself breakfast, he’s alone, and that doesn’t bother him at all.    
  
Well, he does- just about every two minutes- but all he simply internally does is catalogue his mistakes to make tabs on what he needs to improve on.    
  
Damian doesn’t really feel much of anything.    
  
(Maybe that’s because his ~~mate, assaulter-~~ opponent is dead. There’s nothing to connect to, no pheromones or physical touches to help him. That’s what he tells himself. It’s easier to think that than to think of how he’s displaying all of the signs of a rape victim.)    
  
Life goes on.   
  
-   
  
His cycle is late.    
  
(Ducard, balls deep within him, groaning huskily against his neck as he ground their hips harshly together-   
  
“Fuck, you’re my pretty slut-mate now, huh?”   
  
Warmth diffusing into his ass, and cumming unwillingly with a wail against the wall-)    
  
West has been skirting around the issue for a week and a half, eyes frantically darting to his face and then away again lightening fast, and the rest of his Team doesn’t particularly care. Djinn had smiled, all sugar sweet, and joked that perhaps he wasn’t an omega anymore in that weird passive aggressive childlike tone of hers, and Damian had almost skewered her with his fork. It’s been a jab that he maybe didn’t have a potential mate anymore, just a barb to throw at him, but she had unknowingly been precisely right.    
  
He would never have heats again because of Ducard’s death.    
  
Any chances of procreation died with the strike of his index and middle finger against Nobody’s forehead, and even though he’d never considered kids it felt like something precious had been stripped away. (Not that it really mattered because he’d been forcibly claimed, but.)    
  
There were chances with hormone therapies and medicines he could get on, but all Damian could think was how Morgan had succeeded in taking another part of his life away, succeeded in making him more of a failure than he already was. Failure as a vigilante, failure as an assassin, failure as an omega.    
  
That’s all he would ever be.    
  
-   
  
Everything comes to a head when motherfucking Slade Wilson kicks his window in.    
  
The burly man steps into the plush carpet, glass crunching unpleasantly, and folds his arms, biceps bulging as he stands there like he’s about to lecture him regardless of the alarms shrieking in the background. Damian doesn’t bother to click them off, just chucks a batarang at the audio system so that it dies with a fizzle, and ignores how the rest of the building must being alerted as well.    
  
“What the fuck is wrong with you, you little shit?” He drawls, and stares directly at him. The teen doesn’t respond. “That idiot of a speedster of yours tracked me down using one of _Morgan Ducard’s_ devices of all things. I don’t have a god-damn idea why me, but whatever. Some big-ass thing must have gone down. Tell me.”    
  
Silence.    
  
He unsheathes his sword with a rasp and darts across the room within a blink of an eye. The tip rests below Damian’s chin, and when Slade digs it in a little, making him bleed, Damian tiredly tilts his head up.    
  
Condescendingly, he pats his tan cheek. “Good boy. Now, spit it out, kid. Tell Daddy Slade what’s wrong already. I don’t have time to deal with your angst all day.” Lazarus green eyes blink up slowly at him, and blank and _bland,_ and Slade feels his dried up shriveled heart clench at their emptiness. Something really is fucking wrong with the kid.    
  
He slides his sword into it’s hilt and sits down next to the hero on his bed. This is serious. The heir to the League of Assassins is never this quiet or compliant, or, or- not _prickly,_ and Deathstroke’s instincts as both a father and a bounty hunter are screaming at him wildly. They sit together in silence for what seems to be hours until one of the Arab’s hands flutter into the air and tug at his collar exposing- exposing a _fucking mating bite_ that’s still relatively fresh, and a ring of dark bruises around his neck.    
  
“Oh, shit, kid,” Tumbles out of Slade’s mouth, and before he knows what he’s doing he’s unbuckled his mask and tossed it on the floor. He can connect the dots himself.    
  
Robin doesn’t even look at him.    
  
“Jesus Christ,” he says, and fights the urge to run his fingers through his white hair in agitation. He is so fucking out of his depth. The child stays stock still. “Can I touch you?” He asks, and there’s a slow nod of assent before he tugs Damian into a side-hug.    
  
Slade might have no idea what the hell to do, but he’s not leaving this kid alone. Fuck Bruce and the rest of that insane family, fuck his Teen Titans, this kid is his and he’s been left alone long enough.    
  
The pair doesn’t move for a long, long time.    
  
-   
  
They’ve been trying to contact Robin for months, now.    
  
Ever since the break in at the Teen Titans’ base, Damian has been missing. The family knows who did it, (and by it they mean kidnap, or coerce or something) of course- Slade Wilson, obviously- and they’re all (somewhat secretly) terrified for him. Even though they aren’t 100% on the reason, they’ve all concluded that it’s because he was Dick’s protégé once and Slade has always fixated on him. Ric was still a thing, which was why they guessed Deathstroke had taken him.    
  
But the reason is obvious as he stands before them.    
  
He’d decked out in a weird combination of his Robin suit and a smaller version of Desthstroke’s, and his scent is different. Matured.

(Not _theirs._ )    
  
Batman and co. are all still as statues. They all just stand there, examining each other, until Red Robin manages to rasp out what they’re all thinking. “Ro- Damian, your. Your scent’s _different._ ”    
  
Damian tsks, rolls his eyes.    
  
“Obviously, Drake,” he snarks, and Timothy opens his mouth again. "No- no, I _mean-_ you're not supposed to have that _type_ of scent yet." He’s cut off when Batman steps forward.  
  
His voice- despite still having Batman’s gravel- is wrecked but steady. “What happened?”    
  
In the darkness of the Cave, something shifts restlessly, roiling through the blackness like a wraith. Damian flicks a regal hand and calls, “It’s fine, calm down.” The darkness stills. The youngest Bat puts his hand down and continues despite their curious, guarded gazes. He sniffs. “Tt. Late as ever, Batman. But very well... I shall attempt to explain it to you even though you don’t deserve that luxury.”    
  
The Robin- ex-Robin?- folds his arms together but after a moment of swallowing nervously drolls out their answer. His voice is flat and tight with tension as says it.    
  
“Morgan Ducard was alive.”    
  
There’s a sharp inhale from everyone, but Damian continues dully. “He captured me and now he is not. That is all.” Batman’s gloves squeak together as he clenches his fists, and right as he steps forward with a snarl on his handsome alpha face Deathstroke unfolds from the darkness and slithers forward, taking a protective stance in front of him.    
  
The man is silent, but after he tilts his head in their youngest’s direction Damian sighs and seems to collapse inwardly onto himself before straightening. His hands fold behind his back so he is in parade pose, and he opens his mouth yet again, his nervousness permeable the air as they inhale his scent. “He raped me,” he says, eyes distant but hard as flint, “and he claimed me, so I killed him.”    
  
The only sound in the Cave is the small plink-plink-plinks of water hitting the ground from the various stalagmites. Pheromones that express horror and sadness fill the space between them, and Damian snarls and stomps forward. “I don’t fucking want your pity! I gave up- _everything_ \- for you people and your cause and you just- you just _abandoned_ me,” he trails off, shoulders curling up, and Deathstroke places a hand on his shoulder. “You didn’t even _notice-"_ he manages, and his throat closes up with emotion. He furiously scrubs at his eyes. Breathes.    
  
“I’m here to apologize for my behavior. Timothy,” he offers, “I’m sorry. For everything. Jason- for attacking you and accusing you, and anything else I may have done. Father. For the prison, and the blood on my hands.”    
  
There’s a moment that hangs in the air before Jason breaks it. “Ok, yeah, thanks squirt but- what the fuck? Why the hell are you apologizing? We fucked up _so_ goddamn much, we left you alone and despite everything you’re just- a kid,” He says, and swallows. “A _kid_.”    
  
Damian looks at him steadily. “I know.”    
  
With that, he melts into the Cave seamlessly. “So stop looking for me. I'm not your responsibility anymore.” It rings throughout the open space like a death toll, rolling throughout the cave and echoing deeply. 

No one bothers to move.   
  
-   
  
Slade has a new partner.    
  
His name is Renegade.    
  


**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on Twitter @rottencloset for more nasty stuff


End file.
